pencil shavings

ten: matt

The white-haired lady rushes forward to bearhug Sam, who chatters back to her in a spew of friendliness, embracing her like an old friend. But then again, Sam seems like the type to make friends easily - with anyone. The girl is probably never alone.

Peter sways uncomfortably next to me in the doorway of a coffee shop I must have walked past every day and never noticed. It's the size of my bedroom with a 50s diner feel and the smell of coffee warming every stained tile, a low-quality radio chugging out Abba in the background. Sam drags us to a window table and slides onto one of the strawberry-decorated chair cushions, smiling throughout. I wish I could smile like that and not look drunk.

"We're going to discuss backstories," she says intently, but from the way she leans over the table with mischief dancing in her gaze, I can tell it's not that simple. "So, who are you guys?"

Peter and I look at each other with identical expressions of confusion, but Sam stays quiet and awkwardness ensues; Sam looking at Peter, Peter spinning to watch tourists outside, Sam turning to me, me looking down at my hands and sighing, Peter glancing at Sam, Sam looking back at Peter, Peter shooting his gaze to me, both of them looking at me, me drumming my fingers on the table and wishing we could all spontaneously go blind. I want to go home.

"My parents are divorced," Sam finally says, but slowly, as if tasting the words as they come into the still air between us all. Like I care what her life is like.

"And my mom is kinda crazy, and she has this awful boyfriend names Bryan with a 'y', and I haven't seen my dad or my insane sister in a long time, but I guess it's okay. We're all okay, I suppose."

Peter is looking at her like she sprouted antlers. "Is this how you always make friends?"

She just watches us with those beautiful eyes. Those big gold disks, like something out of a fairytale, deep and melting like fireflies. And something in me yelps, crying out that I should tell all there is about me right here at this tiny lopsided table to this tiny lopsided group. But I can't.

"My parents aren't together either," Peter mutters finally, so offhanded that I barely registered it.

Sam nods and they both looked at me. I roll my eyes.

"Look," I begin, leaning onto the table and turning between them in exasperation. "I'm not interested in sharing the inner workings of my house, thanks for the offer, so why don't we either work on this stupid project, or ditch out completely. This," - I gesture in frustration at our little coffee-shop Kumbaya circle - "this is not something I'd like to waste my time on, thank you very much."

Peter looks at me, slightly surprised, but it's Sam's face, still smiley as ever, that gets me. It makes me angry, somehow.

"Fine," I murmur. "I'll leave."

I push out of the chair, not letting myself think about what I'm leaving behind.

"It's funny."

I stop. Just ignore her, just ignore her, just ignore-

"What is?" I growl.

I can hear Sam shifting behind me. "It's funny that your character is this conceited, arrogant warrior, and yet here you are, too scared to even introduce yourself properly. I suppose you have the conceited part down, though."

I turn back to her, exhaling sharply. "I'm not running. And it's not an introduction, you weirdo. This isn't normal. I mean, you do realize that I didn't sign up for a therapy session, right?"

Peter just shakes his head, and Sam is still smiling. This isn't normal. There is no way whatever this conversation is, is normal. None. They're weirdos!

"Sorry," Sam shrugs. "I guess I just thought it might help, but whatever. Coffee, anybody?"

I sink back into my seat, accepting a mug from Sam. The topic shifts back to Hercules and Agamemnon and Kai, but I can't stop thinking about Sam and Peter. The weirdos. Thinking and thinking about their lack of judgment, the warmth that had pooled between us when the trust in their eyes mixed with the honesty in their words. And there's an odd itch in my head that wishes I had said something to them, opened up a little. Opened up to these strangers. 

 God, what's wrong with me.

Their knees might be touching mine under the table, but they seem so far away. And that's always been enough - keeping them totally separate from me - right? 

It doesn't matter anyway; Sam is right: I'm far too conceited and scared to even try compassion. It's like there's frost on the windowpane of my heart and the sun has been gone too long and the nights are only a bitter chill.

But when Sam pours more coffee and smiles at me, her eyes shine the promising gold of a sunrise.